Category Archives: Sex in the South Seas

Post navigation

I was in the world of Senemelia’s pleasure, my nose and most of my mouth in her cunt, with her thighs braced on my face and her body heaving underneath me. She was making sounds that couldn’t be words, not even in Fijian. I doubted that she knew she was making them.

But then she stopped. I could feel the tension drain away. I suppose that she’d got distracted at the last moments, since this was new and possibly “dirty”. I slowed right down, and started again.

So I reached for the Gideon Bible where I’d stashed my condoms, slipped one of the things on, and pushed her down, my hands on her shoulders, holding myself over her while I looked down into her eyes. I held eye contact while I slowly pushed my way into her. She was very wet but also a very tight girl, and she winced when I had my cock all the way inside and our bodies pressed together. This awoke stupid cock pride, and also my urge to be cruel in small, measured doses. So I pressed as hard into her as I could manage, and held us there together.

Senemelia bit her lip, wide-eyed, then grunted. It was an affirmative noise. So I started again to pump her, savouring the sliding of warm, slick, velvet skin, moving very slowly. Then I was ambushed.

Senemelia wrapped her legs around my waist and simply began to fuck me, bucking up at me, using my cock hard and fast, at more than twice the speed I’d been moving. So I sped up to join her, and we jolted each other until Senemelia came, with a series of short sighs that broke and fell like notes of a descending scale.

Before she’d recovered I put my hands under her ass and rode her, giving my very best hard and fast fuck. She began to come, again, in about a minute, and I was past any sort of control. I shouted something wordless and triumphant and released into her.

Then we rested for a bit, puffing like steamtrains and holding each other.

We fucked again, and again, until it was getting light. Then I fell asleep.

When I woke up, about 8AM, she was gone. I vaguely remembered her getting up, a shadowy, twilight girl, about 5AM. She’d had a shower, and whispered something about getting back to her uncle’s place in Raiwaqa before he woke up. She’d kissed me on the cheek, and shut my room door carefully after her.

I only thought of the questions I wanted to ask once she was gone. Did she have a phone number? What was her address in Raiwaqa? Did she want to see me again?

I thought of going to Raiwaqa and asking round till I found her. But that would be stupid.

A kaivelagi looking for a specific Fijian girl would certainly be noticed, and start scandalised gossip. That wouldn’t do Senemelia any good at all.

Still, she’d taught me that sex isn’t something completely “natural”. Different cultures have different customs and different styles, not just about who’s allowed to initiate sex and how free women are allowed to be, but also about the details, the actual things people do when they’re fucking or leading up to it. And I learned that just the same, you can always work it out. Sex isn’t completely “natural”, but it partly is, and if we suspend our cultural arrogances we’ll have no trouble enjoying the differences and making them work.

But I had to leave Suva in a few days, and though I went back each of my remaining nights to the club where we’d met, I never saw Senemelia again.

Bed suddenly seemed urgent. I waltzed, or fox-trotted, Senemelia to the bed and pulled back the sheet. Senemelia sat down on on the edge, watching me.

I pulled my shirt over my head, not worrying about buttons. Senemelia was still sitting there when I’d finished, so I leaned down and kissed her and then, suddenly and treacherously, pushed her so she rolled onto her back.

While she was still sprawled, legs in the air, I crawled onto the end of the bed, jeans and underpants round my ankles, and knee-walked towards her, led by my cock. I’d have thought that was a terrifying sight, but she laughed. Merrily. I’m going to have to say merrily, since that’s what it was.

When I was in range I sprawled forward, and put my hands under her ass. Senemelia looked surprised. I dipped my head, and kissed her belly, just above her pubic patch. Then I trailed my tongue downwards.

Senemelia squirmed, trying to get away. “Noooo.”

I supposed that her mother, or some nun or similar from her school, had told her that oral sex is dirty and that God doesn’t like dirty things. Or something on those lines. “Senemelia, this is really fine. Lots of lovers do it. Lots of girls love it. And you look beautiful, and you smell wonderful. It’s something men like to do.”

“I’ve been dancing for hours. I’m not…” Senemelia frowned.

“It’s something I want to do. For me, to please me. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want, but … will you let me?”

It didn’t take her long. Senemelia give me that smile with which she’d tiold me she was so going to going fuck me, and lay back, head on the pillow.

“Ok. Do your worst, kaivelagi.”

So I lowered my head again, determined to make the best case for cunnilingus I possibly could. There was a slightly faecal smell underneath the coconut oil and spices on her skin, but it was warm and human rather than gross. I’d stayed in villages and housing where the washing facilities consisted of a communal cold tap, so being perfectly clean wasn’t always easy. Anyway, she may have been shy about it, but in truth she smelt good.

She was pleased enough to be licked and kissed above her cunt, and her inner thighs, and the sensitive skin beside her cunt, and when I finally let my tongue run down between her labia she gasped. That was good, obviously.

I made a pleased noise at her, and began to do her. After a while she tightened her stomach muscles and clenched her fists, pressing them into the mattress. Slim thighs raised themselves off the bed and pressed against my ears. I sped up.

Senemelia’s teak-dark breasts, her belly and her arms seemed to shine in the halflight. And her eyes. I crossed to stand behind her, to take her hands away and cup her breasts in mine. Senemelia said, “Ahhhhh,” and squirmed back towards me, getting her ass against my cock.

So that was the right thing to do. Tongue-kissing isn’t a universal practise, but maybe stroking her breasts and jamming her arse with a hard-on is a good cross-cultural practise. Senemelia liked it, anyway. Maybe I was over-generalising from a small sample.

I pinched her nipples very slightly, and she turned her head to smile back at me because I was doing something weird, but tried to squirm away. So that wasn’t a Senemelia sexual custom either.

It would have been even better before the missionaries arrived.

So I stuck to things that had already been well received, holding her breasts tight but painlessly, pressing forward so my cock made known its feelings about her bum. Senemelia pressed back, and rotated her ass against me like a traditional dancer, while I ran my hands down her belly to the catch on that spangled skirt. I fumbled: there was oil on my hands, and on my shirt. Senemelia shone because she’d covered her whole body with oil.

I licked a spot on her shoulder, just below her neck. Coconut oil, I supposed. It tasted mainly of sweaty girl, with faint traces of coconut and something like chili. But Senemelia sighed and sucked her stomach in to help me undo the catch on the skirt. In a second or two it dropped to the floor.

The knickers were faded and a little worn at the waistband. She hadn’t expected to be taking them off in company. I pushed them down to her thighs. And, because no one could possibly resist Senemelia’s perfect bubble butt, I smacked her arse. “Bed,” I said.

I was going to apologise, since in my experience erections only work as compliments in established relationships, where people are comfortable with their lovers’ bodies. If you spring it on a woman while she’s still dressed, you shave quite a few percentage points off your chances of getting her undressed.

Senemelia shook her head in disbelief. I couldn’t tell whether that was because I’d flashed my cock at her, even if accidentally, or because I’d apologised for it. She put her hands on the bottom of her singlet, as though she was about to take it off.

I watched her, especially when the hem lifted off an inch or two of shining, near-black stomach. I took as step closer, to help.

If I’d been surer of my ground I’d have refused, But I still wasn’t sure how many points I’d lost with that premature appearance of my cock. So I turned and pulled at the cord that hung from the ceiling beside the door.

The room went black until my eyes adjusted a few seconds later. We were in twilight, with a street light across the road, and the bright night sky shining on Senemelia’s body. She’d raised her arms and the half-light picked out the white of the tee-shirt, and the glistening white of her teeth and eyes.

The tee-shirt dropped to the ground, and Senemelia stood there in the dark, with her hands cupping her breasts.

It wasn’t a great room. For one thing, there was a blood spray on the wall, I assume from a hypo. No one had bothered to clean it up. I’d thought it was depressing, but though it was dried and brown I wasn’t game to clean it off either.

I’d borrowed masking tape from the reception desk and covered it with a print of Botticelli’s Primavera I’d cut from a magazine. One day someone would rip that down and be confronted with the blood, and the propinquity of human-created beauty and ugliness.

Well, Senemelia was close to me, and she was human beauty. She was about a head shorter than me. Her hair was crinkly, more Melanesian than Polynesian, and cut short so it looked like a cap. Her eyes were large, brown and round, and her nose was snubbed; her mouth was plump, and mauve, though her bottom lip was pink at the centre. The pink area shone, wet from her tongue.

She watched me as closely as I studied her. I hoped she thought I was acceptable. It occurred to me that she could be as uncertain as me, and more so. I kissed that mouth, thinking it looked like a bruised flower.

A dark pansy, maybe.

She didn’t kiss me back, That is, she opened her mouth and put her arms around me. But although I held the kiss for a long time, she didn’t do any of the things girls and I had done with our tongues when we’re kissing for the first time and we want to make a good impression. I touched just inside her top teeth, experimentally, and she seemed surprised. So that wasn’t a Polynesian custom.

I’d spent time puzzling rather than exciting her. Maybe. Anyway, praise had to be a universal taste. I slipped my hands down inside that spangly skirt again, to enjoy her ass and haul her in tighter. I said, “I love your mouth. It’s beautiful.”

Senemelia smiled, but said nothing. She leaned her forehead forward so it rested against my chin. After a while she chuckled. I said, “What?”

She touched the head of my cock. Skin to skin. I looked down. It’d emerged, erect, and pushed its way partly over my belt, looking like an angry pink fish. I said “Oh.”

Senemelia and I walked back to my hotel, holding hands and swapping kisses to keep the walk interesting. She’d break off and walk beside me, not touching, when another woman walked past. A Fijian woman walking with a white man at night will usually be thought of as a sex worker.

Senemelia wasn’t worried that anyone would recognise her, since we were in Toorak and she lived in Raiwaqa, a very outer suburb near the university. Suva’s just big enough to be anonymous in. But she didn’t like feeling like she was being judged.

I was more worried about the lone guys ahead of us who saw us and ducked into alleyways. I’d cross the road so we passed that alley from a distance, and she seemed to feel that was sensible. There wasn’t much lighting, and the streets were pot-holed and littered with traps for the unwary: empty fruit crates, rubbish bins and so on.

While we’re walking, I should explain a bit more about why this could happen although sex, except with a sex worker, is impossible on my current visit. The first thing is that Fiji is probably the least religious of the Pacific Islands. A key reason for that is that Indian workers were brought in, by the British, to harvest cane, especially during the First World War, while a lot of Fijian men were in the army.

In all the other islands there’s only Christianity, and it’s easy to think of it as something natural, that everybody adheres to and that can’t be questioned. But in Fiji, a Christian can look at Hindu temples and know that about half the population follow another religion. And that religion must be false if Christianity is true. But the reasons Hindus have for believing in their religion are much the same as the reasons that Christians have for believing in Christianity. So those reasons can, demonstrably. lead to false religious beliefs.

So choice tends to undercut both religions. The consequence is that there are far fewer churches or temples, per head of population, in Fiji than there are in Samoa, or Tonga.

Another thing about Fiji is that for reasons I don’t know, women have much more sexual agency than women in the other South Pacific cultures. And they use it. I first went to Fiji when I was seventeen, and I was a very pretty boy indeed. Not that I knew it at the time. It was my first experience of being called over by women who would ask me my name, and where I was from and – the conversation having lasted long enough by now – invite me to fuck them. Singly or in twos.

At the time I had no experience of being desired, so I wasted a lot of time and opportunities by assuming that these women were kidding me. But when I gathered my nerve and had the adventures, I found that they weren’t kidding at all.

The other thing is that the village structure in Fiji is slowly starting to loosen its hold on younger people. Sometimes that’s bad, because young people can leave and find that without adult guidance or much experience of freedom, they finish up addicted and/or involved in crime.

On the other hand, it means that a girl like Senemelia can leave the parents and go to university, a couple of hundred miles away. So long as she visited from time to time, and didn’t tell them everything that she was up to, she had freedom that she wouldn’t have had a generation or so ago.

Anyway, we reached the hotel. It’s old, a wooden three-story building in Toorak. There are no lights on, so the receptionist had gone to bed. I had a key to the front door and my room so that didn’t matter.

Senemelia was wearing her dance skirt, and it was tight and it spangled. So I put my hand under it, and she squirmed in closer to me, because my hand was so cold.

I took her hair and pulled her face up and kissed her. Senemelia closed her eyes, and opened her mouth.

Her name was Senimelia. She was a veterinary sciences student at the University of the South Pacific in Suva, and she worked during the day at her uncle’s laundry business. I danced with her in a nightclub, because she probably wasn’t the prettiest girl in the room, but she was certainly the sexiest.

There was a band playing ancient British blooze, Cream, Blues Incorporated, John Mayall and so on. The bass player was Maori and the other three were Hawaiian. Including the show-off, twiddling guitarist, who kept reproducing Eric Clapton’s favourite solo. That’s the one that goes diddle iddle diddle iddle diddle iddle up and down scales forever.

But Senimelia had hips that were apparently set on ball-bearings. She was a much better dancer than me. Though all women are, as far as I know.

She was wearing a white singlet, so that when she swing to the left or right, an area of brown roundness would partly escape from the gap under her arm.

Her nipples were hard enough to suggest that she liked me in ways that I liked her, and they – the nipples, I mean – wrote fascinating, moving circles under the cotton.

Eventually I suggested that we go home – I had a hotel room that night, because I was in a city – and take this dance to bed. She frowned, not following me.

“I want to fuck you,” I said, keeping it simple.

She looked shocked for a split second, Then she raised her head, and breathed an “Ohhhh” of comprehension. “Oh. Well, that’s good, Mr …”

“Mortimer. But call me Jaime.” I’d already said that, but I wasn’t offended that she d forgotten. We d been focussed on non-verbal things.

“Because I’m so going to fuck you.” She had a nice smile. Especially when delivering good news.

So I’ve been tempted by good girls and bad and, for slightly different reasons in each case, I’ve not had sex with those girls in all these islands and villages.

A girl in a bar in Apia poured her bosom more or less into my drink, her nipple nearly impaling itself on the point of the tiny umbrella. She leaned onto my hands instead, and those breasts were beautiful, warm, brown and firm.

So was her arse when she said something cheeky and I whacked it.

I humoured her and bought her a drink, but not the second drink that means the deal is sealed. There was a guy watching her, and therefore me. It was clear that if I spent money on her most of it would go to him.

I have trouble with that. Less high-mindedly, there’s also an ego issue. I’d find it hard to have sex with someone who wasn’t in bed with me because they desired me. It’d just seem awkward.

Most of the women I met on this trip weren’t city girls. They lived with their parents, aunts, uncles, cousins, brothers and sisters and so on in villages near the sea, where I’d hire a fale on the beach. If you even came on to one of the young women, let alone actually had sex with her, then you’d be being a bad and ungracious guest. And these were people who were too generous for me to do anything that would hurt them or piss them off.

I do have a story to tell about sex in these islands, but it’s from another trip when I spent more time in the cities and towns, such as they are, of the main islands. The customs there are very different from those in the countryside. If you come back in a couple of days I’ll tell that story.

There’s a figure in many Maugham stories, a mad, desperate drunk man wearing a once neat white linen suit, staggering across a palm tree beach with a gin bottle in his hand, sucking at the gin to keep away the malaria and the nightmare laughter that only he can hear.

The linen suit is stained with his sweat, wine spills and that incident a couple of weeks ago that involved his crotch and a cheerful Pacific Island girl.

I’ve been trying to be him. I’m afraid I haven’t managed to achieve it. I liked the idea of going troppo, so I’ve drunk creme de menthe and Midori with pineapple juice and lime in bars that aren’t much more than corrugated iron shacks.

Despite that, my white linen suit is still immaculate and I haven’t had sex with that cheerful, if hypothetical, girl who would foam, or cream, over a crease or two in my trousers if I decided to have her with only the zipper undone.

Subscribe to My Blog!

There are four posts a week. They tend to be fairly substantial, and either sexy, funny or informative, or some combination thereof.
I'd love to have more subscribers!
You'd love to know when I've posted something new, too!